To Trod a Path that Few Have Trod
by Weaver Blyx
Summary: What if Sweeney Todd had returned home...and been reuinited with his wife Lucy? What horrors will ensue thanks to Mrs. Lovett's romantic ambitions, Todd's thirst for vengeance, and Lucy's insanity?
1. Back from the Dead

_(This is one of those "what-would've-happened-**if**" kinds of stories. Plot-wise, it is exactly the same as the original. Mr. Todd will still have blood on his mind. The villains are exactly the same. But there are minor changes, as this opening chapter hints. Note that some of the conversations are altered, as are the chronological order in which some of the conversations take place. Nothing's really in order. I hope I haven't ruined the story. Read on! If you like it, I think I might just turn this into my ongoing, chapter-containing project. Reviews are, consequently, **more **than welcome.)_

"An apothecary down the street—tried to stop her—"

Nellie Lovett wasn't the least discomfited as Mr. Todd stared at her, glassy-eyed and broken. He was a hopeless introvert. Couldn't see past his own nose—wouldn't suspect a thing. She reached out to him and touched his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Todd," she said. "'Deed I—"

"Mrs. Lovett." His voice was soft. Cracked. "Leave me. Please."

"Mr. Todd—"

He looked away from her, trembling. Nellie felt a twinge of guilt. Would it help any if she gave up her precious secret? No, of course not. Lucy _was _dead, in her mind at least. The woman was completely cuckoo.

Satisfied with the ultimate good of her motives, she turned her attention back to Mr. Todd. He was kneeling by the little cradle in the corner, drawing the sheet back from it, staring at the raggedy doll lying within. He reached out, brushing the toy's molded cheek.

"Fifteen years," he said, lowly. "Fifteen years of Hell, Mrs. Lovett. Fifteen years dreaming I might come home to a wife and child."

"Mr. Todd"—she was thinking fast. She had to distract him. Get his thoughts back to the present. –"Mr. Todd, I have somethin' for you."

His breathing shortened. He drew the blanket back over the cradle.

"Here, Mr. Todd, look—see, I kept it, all these years—"

He took the box she held out to him. Opened it. Nellie's heart fluttered to see his great, black eyes glisten, soften—to see him lift up one of those old razors and tilt them so that the dim light shining in through the window danced along their silver polish. His long, thin finger slid along one blade, his gaze riveted on the red drop that spilled into his palm where the keen edge slit his flesh.

"My fr—" he began.

"AWLMS! _Alms, _awlms for a peetiful woman! Awlms!"

Nellie shrieked. She flew a few steps forward, towards the open door, her arms spread wide. "Out! Out with ya, then! _Out!" _

"_Witch!"_

The beggar woman ducked her antagonist's flailing fists and darted, in a sort of hunched, awkward fashion, towards Sweeney. She flung her stick-like arms about his middle and clung to him so firmly that he gasped for breath.

"Awlms," whimpered the beggar woman. Her dirty, mud-splotched face was scrunched against his chest. "Don'—don't I know you, mister?"

Nellie made a darting grab at the intruder, but Mr. Todd turned a little to one side, away from her. He had stiffened up when the beggar woman had first caught him tight in her embrace, and he still stood very straight and still, but a strange look had come over him—his white face was drawn into a look of intense concentration, and he raised the beggar woman's face to the light despite her muffled protestations. In a moment his restraint on his emotions snapped. With a little sob his head dropped and he nuzzled the beggar woman's matted, dirt-caked head of hair, his hands tightening on her shoulders.

"Lucy," he said. _"Lucy." _


	2. Vengeance and Vittles

_(This is a longer chapter than I meant it to be. I promise the plot will start picking up soon!! Hang in there. And thank you all for your **reviews **and encouragement. I need that! Special thanks to Smashing, who pretty much convinced me I ought to write something more than what I've already posted. Thank you all.) _

Mrs. Lovett couldn't believe her eyes. It was as if all her plans had, in the blink of an eye, just gone to pot. She felt that old, familiar jealousy flushing her face and tightening her throat—it wasn't fair. It _wasn't. _This madwoman had no right to disrupt and vaporize her every dream and fantasy.

"Mr. Todd," she murmured.

He wasn't listening to her. He saw nothing, knew nothing but the bedraggled woman cuddling up to him. She was different, this woman, from the Lucy he had known. She was so…different. Her grasp on him wasn't gentle or tenderly shy in the least, as he remembered, but desperate—frenzied. Something wasn't right. Looking down into those wide, bloodshot eyes of hers, he knew that, through the haze of her own perplexity, she could sense the heightening gale of his emotions. She gurgled deep in her throat—a sickly, queer sound. A thin line of drool trickled down her gray chin.

Sweeney lifted his hand to her face. His eyes were narrowed into thin, pain-filled slits. He swayed dizzily, still clutching the beggar woman to him.

"Lucy," he said again.

He kissed her.

With the soft meeting of their lips they came alive. They woke up, quickly and suddenly, as if from a dream. Or at least Sweeney did. The beggar woman—Lucy—was disoriented as ever, making incoherent bursts of noise and feeling him with her rough, clumsy, groping hands. Sweeney wept softly, and murmured tender nothings against her lips, the wetness dripping warm upon her upturned face. He was alive again—alive!—at last! But his heart bled as he had believed it no longer could, bled as profusely and agonizingly as it had when he had first been separated from his wife and little child. The pain was awful, wracking, and he reveled in it, allowing this strange mixture of bitterness and soaring ecstasy to possess and strengthen him.

"My sweet—my love," he whispered breathlessly.

_"I…_know_…you,"_ said the beggar woman. Uncertainly.

"Yes. Yes, Lucy." He stroked her, chilled fingertips barely caressing her throbbing temples. "I'm home, Lucy. I've come back."

"Benja—"

"Shh! Shh." He touched her lips. "Not anymore, my love. I mustn't be Barker. 'Tisn't safe. It's Sweeney—Sweeney Todd, my pet—now. Will you remember? Will you? My poor dove."

"Swee-ney," said Lucy, the name slipping awkwardly off her tongue.

"Sweeney."

"Mr. Todd?"

Nellie Lovett stepped forward, her red lips bent up in a smile. In her arms she bore a little tray.

"I've brought somethin' for the child to nibble on, Mr. Todd, love. Here."

Sweeney's eyes had gone cold both at the sound of Nellie's voice and at the close proximity of her person, but at the sight of the plate she offered of goodness-knows-what and the shot of gin in its tin cup he warmed up once more and even gave her a ghost of a smile.

"Put it on the floor, Mrs. Lovett. Thank-you."

"As y'please."

Still supporting Lucy in his arms, Sweeney bent downwards until he knelt, cradling the poor woman against him. Nellie could see him observing his beloved with that cold sort of intensity that seemed so characteristic of him now, taking in and committing to memory every detail of her appearance. She liked to think he was at last fully comprehending her messy, unkempt, and smelly state.

"Here, Lucy. Drink. You must drink."

Sweeney was firm, coaxing, but Lucy balked like a frightened animal, throwing back her head, her eyes wide and rolling. She frothed at the mouth. Nellie cringed.

"Lucy—"

"Mmmm-mmm-mmmm!" said Lucy, teeth clenched tightly together. What was this! Was she pointing at Nellie? Whatever for?

"Come on," said Nellie, stepping nearer despite the uneasy twisting of her gut, "you must drink, Miss Lucy. You look done in, you do. Come, it won't hurt you. It's safe…really it is now, Miss Lucy."

Lucy wouldn't comply. Wouldn't taste a drop. She was now fairly shrieking in protest, patting awkwardly at Sweeney's face, her body shaking and twisted under the sheer force of her fear. At last Sweeney could bear no more and he put the cup aside, petting the madwoman, kissing her lice-infested locks as she quivered against him.

"You needn't drink if you don't wish to," he said. "My poor love. You have suffered far more than I. I've no right to force anything on you at all. But how will you live, sweet? Will you have nothing?"

"Bae-bae-bakery—down street littleways—bakery—" Lucy chattered.

Sweeney's eyes involuntarily locked with Nellie's for the briefest instant. They both knew he hadn't a penny to his name.

"I'll get you something, Lucy. I promise. And then you must have a nice, warm bath—"

"A warm bath!" said Nellie, chagrined.

"Yes." Again Sweeney's attention was riveted on her. She felt a chill run up her spine as his lip twitched, that icy look coming over him again. "Mrs. Lovett, you will accompany me. Lucy—ah, Lucy"—his lids drooped. A rasping sigh escaped him. –"Lucy. You must stay here and rest. We shan't be gone long."

Mrs. Lovett could've danced her delight as she tied up her bonnet. Going shopping with Mr. Todd—and no Lucy hanging on his coattails to capture his notice!

"Oooh, Mr. Todd, yes, I'll show you the way, I will—!"

He caught her elbow. His eyes glinted. Without a word he drew her through the open door of the attic room and down the narrow, rickety stairway leading to the bakery below. Nellie's good humor was fading fast, especially when, safely out of sight of Lucy, he clutched at her arms and forced her to face him.

"Mrs. Lovett, you lied to me, did you not?" he said. His voice dripped venom. Nellie was in quite a stew.

"Didn't lie," she gulped, "I was going to—to—"

"I don't want to hear your excuses," he hissed. He dropped his gaze. "I need your help. What was done to Lucy—what she has endured—"

"The poison made her a little off in the head, Mr. Todd," Nellie put in.

"That it did, Mrs. Lovett," he snapped. "Indeed it did." He released her and Mrs. Lovett, with her usual irrepressible brazenness, stroked his forearm, the color returning faintly to her cheeks when she felt his hard muscles contract beneath her light touch. He jerked away from her.

"I need you to help me look after her. I can't do it alone. Leastways, Mrs. Lovett, not if I wish to attend to those countless other little affairs that _must _be looked after while we remain here."

"Then you plan to leave—?"

"I do. When my work is done. Mrs. Lovett." Sweeney's lips were very near her ear. "I'll set up shop here again. I haven't the funds, I know, as yet—but somehow I'll get them. And then—" he smiled. A slight blush discolored Mrs. Lovett's cheeks. "— then we shall deal with more important matters. I look forward with keen anticipation to the day I've got Turpin's head on a platter. Imagine! I'll see the tables turned on him, and my Johanna free again! It'll be just like it was, Mrs. Lovett."

Mrs. Lovett's expression had darkened. "I'll be 'ere to help you, Mr. Todd," she said.


	3. Murderous Inclinations

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_So sorry it took me so long to update! I'm up to my neck in work lately. Thanks to all who've bothered to **review--**believe me, I know what a bother it is typing even those short sentences of scorn or praise down! Thanks again. And I hope this story continues to satisfy!_

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Sweeney was a different man.

His step, while never spry, was more sure and firm of purpose than before, and his eyes were quick, darting, watchful—intelligent. Nellie caught him looking at her from time to time, but she couldn't for the life of her read his expression. He wouldn't release her arm. It was as if—Nellie's stomach did an absolute flip—he was keeping his eye on her. Like he didn't trust her. Like he _suspected _her of something. Well of course, she hadn't told him about Lucy and all, and that had been a whopping big mistake—

"Oh, bugger," muttered Nellie bad-temperedly, "lookit this crowd, won't you, Mr. Todd. It's always like this on Tuesdays, it is. That Senor Pirelli's got the gents all worked up about some concoction o' his, y'know—"

"Pirelli?"

"Why yes, Mr. Todd. Our local barber. You know it's really a funny sort o' thing—"

"Barber, is he?" Sweeney was attentive, for once. Interested. "Mrs. Lovett, this could be what we've been waiting for."

"Mr. Todd?" _We? _

"Come on. I don't want to miss this. He hasn't finished with the people yet, has he?"

"Why no, he's not even start—"

"Good. Come on."

He slid his way through the pressing crowd, Nellie close behind him, and stood quiet amongst the babbling throng. Waiting. Watching. Watching—again. Mrs. Lovett shuddered. What an unnerving stare he'd got! Whatever had he in mind, though, wasting his time at what goodness knows might as well have been the daily circus? Shrewd as she was, Nellie was baffled.

"Mr. To—"

"Gennelmen, lay-_deees!" _

She started at the shrill call of a young boy who now stood upon the barber's gaudily decorated platform—the silk-shrouded, tent-like structure behind it being the barber's shop proper. A whimsical smile bent her lips. Poor little mite. Looked like he could do with a bite or two. 'Course, a chap would have to be daft or starved to want a nibble at the worst pies in all of cheery London but—this boy might fit the bill.

"Be you in need of somethin' that'll bring the whiskers back to your cheeks? Are the days of that magnificent mop of curls crownin' your head long gone and faded into the realms of wishful fantasy? _We-ll, _ladies 'n' gennelmen, sirs all, here I have the answer to your ev-er-y prayer!" He held up a little bottle filled to the brim with a sickly yellow liquid. "Pirelli's Miracle Elixir!"

Nellie felt Sweeney stiffen beside her. She chanced a look at his face. Not for worlds would she have been in Pirelli's shoes—Sweeney was no master at disguising his emotions, least of all contempt. Or perhaps he wasn't trying to.

"What is _this?" _he said, his words grating out between clenched teeth.

"There-there, love," said Nellie cautiously. Didn't want him to do anything stupid—knock himself into disfavor with the more influential gents in town. Sudden nausea sent her grasping at her nose as the boy began handing out the vial for public inspection. "Mercy—the stench!"

"Smells," said Sweeney, with deliberate clarity, "like piss."

"Naow, naow," broke in a low, almost mockingly wheedling voice, "needn't be that way, sir. The senor is really a most ingenious gentlemen when it comes to the hair."

Sweeney jerked himself about like lightening. His face, if possible, was struck more bloodless than ever, and his eyes were fever-bright.

"Beadle Bamford!" he said.

The Beadle's smile faded somewhat at Sweeney's tone. "'Ave I had the pleasure of meeting you be-fore, sir?"

"Ho no," Sweeney gasped with effort. "I wouldn't—"

"'E's a barber himself, Bamford, sir," broke in Mrs. Lovett. Just in time. "My tenant. You remember where my pie shop's locayted? Fleet Street. That's right, sir. He's in the upstairs room."

"Aww," said Bamford, discomfited. "_That _room. S'yore Pirelli's new competition, eh wot?"

Sweeney's hands were shaking. Her heart pounding, Mrs. Lovett clasped them fast between hers, even as she felt them jerk towards the razors that hung within his open coat, tied at his hip. One finger curled about his wrist and she felt his pulse throbbing hard and erratically—she winced and held him all the tighter.

The Beadle's feigned good-humor was gone.

"Something the matter with you, sir?" he asked, taking a step back.

"He's ill," said Mrs. Lovett, "recoverin' from a—"

"WHO DARED-A CALL MY ELEEXER PISS?"

The Beadle lifted his cane in a somewhat faltering motion and said, brow creased and leer twitching spasmodically at his mouth, "This lad here, Senor, sir. Doan't think he thinks much o' your potion."

"He's ill, really he is," Mrs. Lovett said in desperation.

From out the tent had emerged a veritable peacock of a man, dressed from head to toe in a tight-fitting, garish suit of blue. His black locks had been pampered and pinned with the hand of a true perfectionist, none greater than his own, and his thin moustache was elegantly waxed into twin exquisite curls just over his upper lip. At the moment, that lip just happened to be curled into a snarl of righteous indignation.

"Who _dares_ to call-a my eleexer peese? Zpeak!"

Sweeney might as well have been deaf. His gaze was still riveted on the Beadle, and Mrs. Lovett felt him straining against her hold. She couldn't hold him for long. All that hate pumping through his veins, getting him worked up, broiling in its intensity—! He wanted blood. He wanted the Beadle's blood. And he wanted it _now. _


	4. Reigning in Hell

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_Gosh, folks, I'm awful sorry for taking so long to update! But work's really been piling up between my ears lately. I'm so glad you're all enjoying this story so much, and thank you so, so, SO much for all your **reviews**! I can't tell you how grateful I am. And I really can't apologize enough for being so slow and not replying to all your comments. I really have been over my head in not-so-fun stuff that must-be-done. _

_I hope the story continues to live up to you expectations! I know this a short chapter, and not much happens in it, but, still...it's something!_

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"Mr. Todd—Mr. Todd, please," Mrs. Lovett whispered harshly, leaning in close to him. "Don't be a fool, Mr. Todd."

His eyes flew to hers. She shrank before his gaze, askance in the face of such undisguised fury, a fury and loathing so intense that they possessed and shook every fiber of his being. Her soul felt all shriveled up. Her grasp on him went weak.

Sweeney lunged towards the Beadle, his lips drawn back in an animalistic snarl, razor pinched tight between his fingers. It was in that moment that Nellie found she didn't care if that revulsion of his had been directed towards her at all. Better that she had his attention at all than to be forgotten. Better reigning in Hell than serving in Heaven…

She flew between them, quick as ever. Her desperate hands on Sweeney's shoulders startled him to a halt. The Beadle was frozen, shocked and scared out of his wits, and the crowd about them murmured with amazement. Mrs. Lovett raised herself to her tip-toes and threw her arms about Sweeney's neck, kissing his firm, tense lips.

"There-there, love," she crooned, her voice all shaky in her fright, "there-there!"

Sweeney gasped, jerked in her arms. His eyes were still glassy. His expression was still distant. But he was "waking up" fast. His long lashes fluttered, lightly tickling Nellie's forehead. His expression was almost childlike in its confusion. There was something unnatural and off-putting in his melding of amazed innocence and bloodlust, but glimpsing that sweetly naïve side of him wrung out Nellie's heart more wrenchingly than ever.

"Please, Mr. Todd," she said. "Let's go home."

"Lucy," he whispered, staring wildly at her.

Nellie didn't even feel the tear that spilled down her numb, gray cheek. "Shh," she said.

"Is the chappie mad?" asked the Beadle, having gotten his breath back.

"He's been ill, is all," said Nellie. "Delirious, sir. I shouldn't've let him out of bed this mornin'."

"Well, izzn't much-a wonder then that he spoke-a so of my eleexer."

Nellie glanced at Pirelli. "No," she said. "Guess it ain't, then, at that."

Mr. Todd drooped in her arms. It was as if all the energy had been drained from him just as suddenly as it had passed the boiling point. Nellie wasn't really sure how to get him back to her shop in such a semi-unconscious state—but she would manage somehow.

She had to.

"Mrs. Lovett."

She started, looking up, surprised, into Mr. Todd's drawn, white face. He looked exhausted.

"Mrs. Lovett," he said again, his sad gaze fixed on the now uninterested rows of people standing before Pirelli's gaudy stage. "I'm sorry."

"'S okay, Mr. T," she said, pressing her cheek for an instant against his shoulder. "It's been a right devil of a day for you, love."

"Lucy—I haven't any money—what a fool I am—"

"Hush now. I've a copper or two on me."


	5. A Pie in the Face

_Hello all! At last I've completed another chapter. This is a rather long one. I hope the story continues to please! But I noticed that the last chapter recieved a much cooler reception in the **reviews **bank than its predecessors. I'd like to know what I do right when I please you all and get a ton of feedback--and what I do wrong when there's a definite lull in comments. So please keep reviewing! And thanks to those who continue to do so. Your comments really do keep me going...an awful lot of authors say that, I know, but let me tell you...they're not lying! We writers need love too. _

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Nellie wondered what those few witless souls who still looked in at her shop's grime-glazed windows with a smidgen of hunger in their eyes (doubtless remembering the days before good red meat became scarce and roaches so temptingly plentiful) would deduce from her paying a call on one of the many poverty-stricken ladies, excluding Mrs. Mooney, who made up her pie-making competition. If they hadn't clued in on her pies' unsavory reputation before, they certainly could guess at it now. 

Nonetheless Nellie was not in the least swayed, especially when Mr. Todd fit so neatly into the equation. She kept stealing glances at him as they walked along, worshipping him with her eyes, touching him every now and then as if to make certain he was really there. It was almost humorous, watching them walk on together. At the merest batting of an eye, the slightest twitch of his sharp little nose, Mrs. Lovett's arm would go round his waist, and she'd look up at him, face warm with concern and admittedly no small pleasure.

"Really, you're so weak, love," she'd say. "Keep close to me now. I won't let you take a tumble in them ditches."

Mr. Todd was silent and amazingly compliant as she propelled him along. He looked like a dead thing. Even as they stumbled and tripped together through the door of Mrs. Ainsworth's bakery his expression remained unfocused and dull, and he fairly wilted on the worn old bench Nellie pressed him to.

"Mrs. Ainsworth!" she called, stepping away and towards the counter towards the back of the shop. "Anna! I've come for me regular!"

"On my way! Hold out a minute there, dear!"

Mrs. Ainsworth was a robust woman, well past the point of middle age. She was bald and red-faced as an apple. She came bustling out of one of the backrooms, a tray full of steaming pies balanced skillfully in one hand, the other holding a mug of ale.

"Nellie," she gasped, setting the tray and cup down and mopping her perspiring face with her apron. "It's been so long. You haven't been living off those pies of yours, have you now, my girl?"

"Oh no, mum," Nellie teased, smiling, "but you know how frightful hard it is these days. Your pies don't come cheap."

Mrs. Ainsworth's face was severe. "They come free, for a friend," she said. "And pride won't spare you hunger, Nellie. You should come more often. Else you'll starve."

Nellie's face was flushed. "Don't you know, tho', actually I've come on the behalf of a good friend o' mine. He's over there. Sittin' in yon seat. Broke as a regular pauper, an' with a wife to look after too."

Mrs. Ainsworth's expression melted to one of tender sympathy as her attention fell on the listless Mr. Todd.

"He looks pale as death," she said. "Here. Carry this tray for me. The lad looks like he could do with a bite and drop of something indeed."

To Nellie's boundless surprise, Mr. Todd looked up at the two women as they approached with all the sagacity of an expert eavesdropper. His white lips moved soundlessly a moment and he made as if to rise, but Mrs. Ainsworth planted a beefy hand on his chest and forced him back down.

"There now, child," she said, "don't fuss."

Mr. Todd's face was set. "I haven't the time. Lucy—"

"Can wait," said Mrs. Ainsworth. "If she's any worse off than you, I swear she's in her grave. Here. Have some of this."

She broke off a crisp piece of one of her choice pastries and held it out to him.

"Mrs. Ainsworth." The barest hint of anger sparked in Mr. Todd's hopelessly expressive eyes. "Your generosity is wasted on one such as I. I have no wish to taste anything. My wife is starving even as we speak."

Mrs. Ainsworth put her free hand on his belly, ignoring how he flinched away from her.

"Look at that," she accused, "all flat and empty."

"I really think he ought to eat, 'deed I do." Mrs. Lovett plopped down on Mr. Todd's other side.

"Do you then?" Mrs. Ainsworth smiled. "Well, my dear, we pie makers are a stubborn lot. Have him open up that pretty mouth of his, won't you?"

"Mrs. Lovett..." Mr. Todd turned on her quick as a striking serpent. His every move hinted threateningly and none too subtly the extreme danger she was tipping in. "I wouldn't if I were you."

Seeing him there, feeble yet fiery as ever, his old vivacity and sharpness of tongue returned to him again, struck a tender chord in Nellie's heart. Taking advantage of Mrs. Ainsworth's presence and Mr. Todd's consequent inability to kill her on the spot, if only because of the older baker's protective, motherly nature and behemoth form, she nestled more closely against him and laid her cheek at the warm base of his throat.

"If that's what you want, Mr. T," she said softly, soothingly, "whatever you want. Shh, calm yourself. We'll be off now. _Shh."_

"I am calm," snapped Mr. Todd, with a restless shifting of his body.

"Thanks for your trouble, Mrs. Ainsworth," said Nellie graciously, rising from her seat."You must excuse Mr. Todd. He's very ill."

"In mind and body," said Mrs. Ainsworth knowingly. "Yes I know. Here, I've wrapped three parcels for you. That'll be a pie for each. And take care now." She leaned in close to Nellie and whispered, "He's a strange one, your Mr. T. And I'm not blind. You've got your heart set on him. Careful, Nellie, my girl—he's mean as a wounded wolf, let me tell you, and until he heals up some he'll not grant you any slack in your foolishness."

"I'll try," Nellie said, hugging her. "'E's a good man, 'e is. I just wish he'd show it more often."

"Mrs. Lovett."

Nellie started at Mr. Todd's rasping voice. She turned to him and found him watching her, burdened with the wrapped-up pies, head cocked in both a tensely inquisitive and impatient gesture. She stepped spryly past him and to the door.

"G'bye, Mrs. Ainsworth," she said.

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The two went down the street exchanging neither a word nor a glance. Nellie had stopped brushing up against him now and then just for the fun of it—Mr. Todd seemed to be very ill-tempered, and the last thing Nellie wanted was a razor through her gullet. In his present emotional instability, he was capable of murder on the spot. Still she felt for him despite his edgy harshness of demeanor. He was only fretting after that doggone Lucy, and it was hard to condemn the almost unhealthy intensity of his devotion—save that she thought it very, very unhealthy. 

"Here we are at last," she said as they reached the door to her own shop. "We'll have Miss Lucy fixed up in no time. Quick now, love, you don't want the pies t'get cold. I'll go get my wash basin and put some water on the boil. That hot bath you mentioned'll be ready soon as she's finished with the vittles."

"You're too kind, Mrs. Lovett," he said.

"No trouble, Mr. T—never any trouble. You'd best tuck in too. You _do _look a right beanpole."

A thrill of shock shivered up her spine as he bent near and kissed her cheek. She fixed her watery gaze on the bundles he held.

"You're too patient with me," he said. His voice was soft. Reasonable. Calm. "Thank you."

She watched as he mounted the stairs that led up to Lucy in her attic room. Tears swamped her vision. Little moments like those, when Sweeney Todd recognized the martyr in her, when he spoke with even a smidgen of gentleness as if he'd a devil of a short term memory and couldn't for the life of him recall that she had done her best to deceive him and pronounce his wife dead, were moments Nellie lived and breathed for. It occurred to her that perhaps he was only rewarding her, paying her back for her kindness to him and his beloved—but she cast that filthy supposition aside with extreme distaste. No, there was no room for manipulation in his black, mysterious heart.

An unearthly shriek of agony startled her from her reverie and she flew up the stairway, bursting into the attic room. Mr. Todd was kneeling in the room's center, the parcels lying forgotten to one side. His face was hidden in his hands. Nellie ran to him and dropped to her knees beside him, stroking him, her fingers twisting soothingly in his hair and her face gray with anxiety.

"What is it, Mr. Todd," she said, her voice quavering, "what's happened?"

When he lifted his face to hers she realized with a pang that he wasn't weeping, as she had expected—he was laughing. His face, taught and white with strain, was lit up with a sort of maniacal glee. It was as if all the bitterness and torment so long cooped up in him had swelled to such an extreme that he could no longer bear it. His laugh was hollow, mirthless, and rang on Nellie's ears like dry, gasping sobs.

"Lucy," he said. "She's gone."


	6. Common Imperfection

_Hello to all! It's been a long time—and for that, I apologize. I've had a seriously severe case of writer's block, and couldn't really think of what to write next. But here is the next chapter, short as it is, and I expect to upload another soon after—with a healthy slew of reviews to boost me on. __I really love hearing from you all. I apologize again for not writing sooner. Hope you continue to enjoy!_

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Fate never dealt more harshly with any soul than it did with that of Sweeney Todd. From the beginning his plans had gone awry—from the day of his birth, it seemed, he had been a cursed individual, shunned by the soft, enduring blessings others savor. He lost to gain, and gained to lose once more. Returning to London, he had encountered misfortune at every turn, from his inopportune encounter with Beadle Bamford and the consequent failing of his scheme to gain a few coppers in a barberly duel with Pirelli, to the confounding disappearance of his but lately discovered wife. But if Mr. Todd was tortured and mauled by fickle fortune, his spirit was made of such rough, mad stuff that he seemed to thrive rather than fade with each new hardship. He was accustomed to defeat, and more than willing to risk all for that chance at recapturing an old, numbed happiness possible only in the stuck clock of his heart.

"Mr. Todd—wait—!"

Nellie knew, if he did not, the real limits of his endurance, and seized his arm as he started for the door. By the grim, tense set of his jaw she knew he was resolved to seek out his Lucy, unaware in his frenzied zeal that night had spread its raven wings over the city—and that he was physically unfit to scour brooding London's dark alleys and streets. The thought of the villainy shuffling and lurking outdoors drove Nellie to cling to Mr. Todd all the more tightly.

"'Tis dark—you won't see a thing and—"

"I'm not looking for a thing, I'm looking for my _wife!"_

"Oh stop, please, Mr. Todd, please stop—!"

"I WILL find her—_oof!" _

Her stumbled under her weight as she slackened against him like a dead thing, her knees dragging on the floor as she hung gamely on. With a wordless scream Sweeney tried to pry her fingers from him, but Mrs. Lovett was right. Even as she held him, her desperate hands clutching at his thin hips, she could sense the difficulty he had in moving. His strength was failing and—judging by that first glint of fear in his eyes—he knew it. Perspiration glistening on his face, he slipped to the floor, yielding for a moment to her insistent pulling. Nellie felt a pang of guilt when Mr. Todd cried out softly at the harsh impact of the floor against his knees. Though he never complained, she knew they hurt him.

"Let me go," he gasped, his ragged breaths ruffling her hair. Then, voice cracking with grief, "For God's sake, let me go to her!"

"It's for her sake you're _not _goin'," Nellie whispered. "You'd die out there, Mr. Todd, this time of day, what with the bad 'uns roamin' the streets. What use are you to her dead?"

"My Lucy." Mr. Todd trembled from head to toe, and the fingers that tightened on Nellie's shoulders were cold as ice despite his fever. "She's out there _with them. _I've got to—"

"Mr. Todd—"

"God in Heaven, _no!" _Mr. Todd's anguished, keening wail shook the very walls. "Not my Lucy. Not again. I won't lose her again. Lucy—Lucy—!"

Nellie watched helplessly as he fell back away from her, sprawling out on the floor, his slender body shaken by a massive convulsion. Crawling to his side she petted him, her palms stroking lightly down his face, loosening the bit of lace around his throat to permit him easy breathing. He gasped and groaned for air, his own fingers tightening on her wrists as if for support. Doubling over, he vomited bile.

"Now look what you've gone and done," Nellie scolded lowly. She wiped the filth from his chin with the back of one hand. "Easy there, love. Easy."

"What have I done?" Mr. Todd's restless gaze flicked over her face and all about the room. His white lips moved soundlessly a moment. _"What have I done?" _

"It wasn't you, Mr. T. Chin up." Mrs. Lovett spoke carefully. "We had to go out, we did. An' who could know Miss Lucy needed lockin' up?"

"I should've known," he hissed, raising himself up a little. His large, black eyes, deceptively open and vulnerable, lifted to hers. "She isn't right in her mind, is she, Mrs. Lovett? You knew _that, _from the beginning."

Nellie's mouth went dry. "Yes," she whispered. "I did."

"And you lied to me." Mr. Todd was smiling, his mood elevating from one extreme to another. "You lied to me, and, when things didn't go quite according to plan, you set up this elaborate scheme to separate me from her again. Did you not, my clever pet?"

She turned her head aside. Cynicism was second nature to him, and he was quick to condemn. Of course she more than merited his suspicion, but Nellie was hurt—and charmed, despite herself—by the renewal of Mr. Todd's lively attention.

"No, Mr. T," she said. "I didn't."

He leaned nearer her, rocking forward on his knees and nodding gently. "Of course not, Mrs. Lovett. Your veracity and goodwill are unquestionable."

Nellie faced him squarely now. "Don't mock me, Mr. T," she said. "Please."

"I'm not. I am complimenting your dear, twisted heart. We're one of a kind, Mrs. Lovett. Life has made devils of us both." His gaze was like fire. "I know why you have sheltered and fed me. I believe, Mrs. Lovett, there was no simple kindness involved. Aye, no _real _charity at all."

"I—"

"Have warm water prepared. I shan't be gone long."

Mr. Todd rose awkwardly, buckling on his feet but remaining upright. Nellie stood likewise, tears pricking at her eyes, watching as he hastily adjusted his thin, faded coat and reaching out to help him with a few loose buttons. Her voice trembled when she spoke next.

"Mayn't I come with ya? Keep an eye out, too, eh? Two pairs of eyes are better'n one, Lord knows."

"Not when one pair is deliberately blind," said Mr. Todd. He drew away from her.

"Oh, Mr. Todd!"

Overwhelmed, she threw her arms around him and sobbed aloud on his neck. Her grip was desperate, vice-like, and yet somehow Mr. Todd pried her fingers from him. His expression was one of deathlike placidity, but his eyes were livid. His mouth twitched.

"Perhaps it would be best for both of us," he said, "if I didn't come back."

"No—no, don't say that!" Wetness burned along Mrs. Lovett's cheeks.

With a low, impatient sound he started for the door. Mrs. Lovett sank into the worn chair at the attic room's center, watching his retreating form and then listening intently to his footsteps on the stairs. Her lids were swollen red with crying, and she gripped the chair's arms tightly, convulsively. She knew, somehow, that no good could come of Mr. Todd's passionate venture. He wasn't thinking clearly—was acting in furious, lovelorn haste. But thinking of her own actions, of her own thoughtlessness and impulsive enthusiasm, she found it impossible to really blame him. He had been right, from an oddly angled perspective.

They really were much the same.


	7. Nightmare

_Hullo, all! Sorry it's taken me forever to update, and thank you so much for all your kind reviews. I feel like such a terrible wretch for not writing as I should, but when writer's block descends I have a devil of a time shaking it off._

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It had been hours since Sweeney Todd had abandoned Fleet Street in search of his wife, and his efforts had yet to be rewarded. Starving, cold, and exhausted, Mr. Todd was fast coming to the conclusion that his energies' sole recompense would be a nap in the gutter, and in an irrational burst of bitterness he half-regretted rejecting Nellie's offer of assistance. Nonetheless he trudged doggedly on, listening to the melancholy ribbon of violin music trickling through the heavy city atmosphere from an open window, glad that the notes faded from hearing at each new turn. There was something raw about music—something that left him feeling open and faintly confused. This particular tune had reminded him all the more poignantly of his lost Lucy, and the need to escape it soon became necessity, the notes weighing heavily on his strained temper. He would never give up, but he could not bear to be reminded of failure.

He rounded one corner swiftly, and something shot out in the darkness before him, catching his legs and causing him to stumble. Mr. Todd's bruised joints screamed at the abuse, but he lay silent, his lower lip caught between his teeth. A thrill more of sickness than horror ran through his heart as a familiar voice broke the stillness.

"Ah, Meesta Todd. I see you have finally decided to join us."

Mr. Todd looked up into the sneering features of Pirelli. He raised himself carefully to his knees.

"What do you want?" he hissed. "Not only are you a sham, but apparently a street robber as well."

"Oh no, Mr. Todd, I wouldna stoop so low," Pirelli said. "I recognized that fine razor you wielded so fearsomely in our dear Beadle's face earlier t'day. Tell me, Mr. Barker—how did you find Australia? Pleasant lodgings?"

Todd flung himself at the Italian with a shriek of hate. Pirelli easily evaded the clumsy attack, letting the slighter man batter himself against the wall behind him. The force of the impact was enough to send Todd stumbling once more to the ground, and this time he did not rise so hastily.

"Now, now, Barker," said Pirelli. "No call for that, I believe."

"What do you want with me?" Mr. Todd's words were slurred, and even in the gloom of the alleyway Pirelli could see the red sheen of blood on the barber's lips, oozing in thin rivulets down his chin.

"I remember how skilled you are with a razor," Pirelli said. "How about you and me form a partnership? Twice the customers—twice the profit—and all the profit mine. What d'you say to that, Barker?"

"Have I a choice?"

The listlessness of Todd's reply did not impress the Italian. "I do not trust you, Todd," he said, the ice in his gaze intensifying. "I need your most solemn assurance that you'll try no tricks on me. And _that _can only gained through your little wife, I'll wager."

Todd's eyes snapped to his, wide and fever-black. "What did you say?"

Pirelli smiled, his white teeth glinting. "Poor little Lucy. Wherever can she be?"

"You have my wife?"

"Yes, I suppose I do." Pirelli reached suddenly into darkness behind him. The air erupted with horrible, sobbing cackles as the Italian dragged Lucy into view by her matted locks, the woman chuckling hysterically, her dirty face smudged with tear tracks. Her head dangled from Pirelli's hand like a crooked, broken doll's. The barber kicked her savagely, her thin form jerking at the cruel blow.

"Do I have your promise, Todd?" he said with a laugh. "Or shall I keep your wench? I wager I'll look after her a sight better than you did."

Todd's voice cracked. "I promise," he said. "I'll do whatever you say. Only let her go."

"Ah, let's have it in writing." Pirelli's expression was venomous. "Tomorrow morning come to my shop and I'll have you sign a contract, sealing our bargain. That way, if something untoward should befall me, people will know who had most cause for shedding blood."

"Yes, I'll come, I swear it." Todd had dragged himself the few remaining feet forward until he was near enough to cradle Lucy's battered face against his chest.

Pirelli released the woman contemptuously, watching as she slumped against Todd.

"See to it you do," he said, "or the Judge'll hear of this."

"I am your servant, sir," Todd assured him softly.

"That you are," the Italian laughed. He reached out, gripping Todd's chin and forcing his head back at a sharp, painful angle. "You don't dare be anything else, do you, criminal scum?"

As he was leaning forward to spit in Todd's face, he failed to notice the naked razor gripped in the man's trembling fingers.


	8. Pitfalls of Mercy

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one except Mrs. Ainsworth. She's all mine.

_Dear Readers: Yes, it's me again! I apologize for the slack update rate, especially after I promised to be more regular._

_There are several points in my story that frustrate me, and perhaps they frustrate you, too. I'm going to explain them here (anticlimactic, I know, and I may go back and correct the chapters themselves later). If I leave any other confusing elements out, feel free to write and ask. But first as follows: why did Sweeney Todd attempt to engage Pirelli in a shaving contest? In the context of my story, he intended to win money enough to buy Lucy a meal. Next, why does Pirelli's accent suddenly disappear? Yes, I know, I forgot to mention that the entire Italian accent was feigned. I will definitely have to go back and extend the last chapter._

_

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_

"I am your servant, sir," Todd assured him softly.

"That you are," Pirelli laughed. He reached out, gripping Todd's chin and forcing his head back at a sharp, painful angle. "You don't dare be anything else, do you, criminal scum?"

The insult cut like a knife. The muscles in Todd's face visibly contorted, but he was careful to keep his open blade hidden. His arm was shaking with tension and self-imposed restraint. In Pirelli's laughing face he remembered every cruel injustice he had suffered during his exile, from the pettiest act of malice to tortures meant to break and ruin both body and soul. Even the Beadle had not roused the desperate feeling of hate he felt now, the need to plunge the razor edge into Pirelli's flesh and see red blood flow between his fingers. Still he resisted, acutely aware of Lucy, who clung to him as before in a terrified and trembling grip.

Some of his distress must have shown, for Pirelli's expression was one of satisfaction. The Italian relaxed his hold.

"I look forward to our meeting tomorrow, then," he said. "I bid you good night, Senor."

Todd listened to the man's footsteps receding down the alley. He sat motionless, staring into emptiness as Lucy cringed into him. He could feel her face smothered in his belly, her arms wrapped around his waist as she cried. He caressed her hair but did not consciously direct the motion.

"Did he harm you, Lucy?"

She raised her head, shivering and gasping. "That thing—the thing—he—"

"He's gone." Todd wondered why his voice sounded unfamiliar, as if someone else were speaking. "He didn't hurt you did he?"

"Hit me." Her enormous eyes rolled. "Pulled me hair, he did. Almost tore out my scalp, right rough he was—"

"Ah." He could feel the blood on her. "Shh. I'll fix it, my love. Don't fret."

She raised quivering fingers to his mouth. In the weak, failing glow of a distant gaslight, he could nonetheless see the tear tracks on her cheeks, running like twin muddy rivers on her dirt-caked skin.

"I knows he hurt you," she said, almost inaudibly. "I know, I see what he done to you."

Todd inhaled at her awkward touch but didn't pull away. He turned his rigid face aside.

"It's nothing. A scratch, no more."

He was startled when she turned him to her again, her long, cracked nails gentle as if he were fragile glass. There was a light in her eyes that hadn't been there before, a twinkling of something that was almost sanity.

"It is more," she said, "so, so much more."

She leaned up and kissed his lips.

Todd's muscles seized at the impression of her kiss. He gazed on her with severe astonishment. Before he could respond she finished, drawing back with a lopsided smile and a laugh.

_"That's _for you, Swee-ney," she said. "You been good to me, aintcha then?"

"Lucy," he whispered. "My Lucy."

He caught her as she slumped back, her head hanging crookedly to one side. Her lifelessness frightened him, and with energy born of panic he struggled to raise her. He gasped under his wife's weight, every muscle screaming at the unwanted burden, but somehow he remained on his feet as he turned, seeking to retrace his steps.

* * *

Nellie sat silently before the fire. She was exhausted, but she hadn't been able to sleep. A part of her wished she had followed Mr. Todd on his mission, clandestinely of course, just to make certain he came to no harm. A smaller part prayed he had stumbled into trouble, enabling her to, in the future, nurse him out of it again. Either way, she knew he would come back. If fifteen years of sweat and tears hadn't separated them, neither would London's bad streets.

She was startled out of her musings by a sudden hard knock on the door. Nellie rose unsteadily, wiping the moisture from her brow and drying her hands on her skirt. She laid her cheek on the door.

"Who is it?" she called, only half-daring to hope.

"Mrs. Lovett," came the demanded reply. "Open quick, in God's name."

Her fingers trembled on the bolts. "Mr. Todd, is that you?"

"Open the door!" The voice was now impossibly familiar, harsh and insistent.

Nellie obeyed timidly, gasping when Todd stumbled inside. He looked like a ghost, his wild, unkempt hair clinging to his sweat-drenched forehead, and Nellie was shocked to see the blood on him.

"Lor', what happened, Mr. T?" she breathed.

"Get me a pitcher of water. Hurry!"

She was startled by his brusque, sharp manner until she recognized the limp figure in his arms. Lucy was pale and motionless, her jaws slackly parted. Todd struggled to the drawing room, sinking on his knees as he lowered the ragged woman to the sofa, careful not to jolt her battered form. Nellie was motionless with shock as he passed a hand tenderly over Lucy's face. Feeling the weight of her gaze on him, Todd turned halfway, his eyes blazing.

"What are you waiting for, Mrs. Lovett?" he said.

Nellie's lips quivered, a tempest of warring emotions in her breast.

"I'm going, Mr. T," she said. "I won't be a minute."

She found a jug in the bakery and filled it at the pump just outside. Nellie wasn't comfortable outdoors after dark, but she didn't spare the bad neighborhood a thought as she worked, thinking only of Mr. Todd and that creature he recognized as his wife. Her fingers shook as she shut the bakery door behind her, and when she returned to the drawing room she found Todd unmoved, still studying Lucy.

"Here's the water," Nellie said quietly, setting it on the floor beside him. "Do you need anything else?"

"Is the bath ready?"

"Mr. Todd!"

Nellie's exclamation was involuntary, bursting from her lungs without thought. To her surprise, Todd made no move to berate her for her outburst, instead concentrating on bathing Lucy's face with the worn tatters of a handkerchief.

"You disapprove," he said.

"I wouldn't say that—it's just—you're not so well off yourself, and she can wait an hour or so while you rest. You look terrible, Mr. T!"

Lucy murmured softly at his continued ministrations, sighing as he dabbed the clotted blood from her forehead. Todd continued to work with meticulous deliberation.

"Mrs. Lovett," he said, "may I ask you something?"

She bent beside him. "Anything, Mr. Todd."

"If it were me—if it was I broken and bleeding, dirtying up your sofa cushions—and there was no one around but yourself, long-suffering, put upon, and worn to the bone—tell me, then, would you pause to sleep even for an instant?"

Nellie's heart stopped. "Why, I—I hardly know what to answer."

"Answer honestly, Mrs. Lovett." Mr. Todd's work remained unceasingly rhythmic. "Give me the truth as you see it."

Nellie doubted if he knew what he was doing to her. Todd had never been particularly clever where she was concerned. The mere thought of him hurt and vulnerable was enough to wrench her with physical pain. From any other man Nellie would have thought his inquiry a prying attempt at winning a confession from her, a trick to coax her final confession of love. With Mr. Todd, she knew differently. His eyes were fixed on Lucy's face, their normally hard blackness softened and wetted, and she knew he didn't really understand what she felt for him or how desperately she desired him.

"Really, Mr. Todd," she said, "I can't say. Now let me attend to that bath you were wanting."


End file.
